


It's Never Simple

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-31
Updated: 2005-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to, “What We All Deserve.” It’s AU and it takes place shortly after “Rain of Fire.” The original story explains the series of events that led to this interlude and it probably won’t make much sense if you haven’t read the first one. (Angel contemplates the folly of his actions.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

~*~*~*~

His eyes haunt me.

Crouched low, peering from the dusty shadows of the farthest corner of the closet, those eyes watch me, unblinking. The moaning ceased about an hour ago, to be replaced by this eerie silence that is even more gut wrenching than Wesley’s cries have been….

*What have I done?* 

I should beg Willow to stake me, when or if she ever comes. Of anything I’ve ever done, any sin I’ve ever perpetrated against humanity, this has to be the worst. This was by no means his choice, and I’ve no one to blame but myself. Angelus had no part in this…in fact; I can hear his laughter echoing through my brain. I, Angel, have never sired a child, save Connor, and that was entirely different.

A Child.

His eyes haunt me.

Smoldering blue, burning from the shadows with an intensity they never knew in life. I suddenly miss the wire frames that lent a gentle innocence to the man’s face, an innocence lost long before I raped him of his humanity. It’s been gone for months, long before this, along with the easy camaraderie and the almost timid glances he’d cast in my direction when he thought I wasn’t looking, that I didn’t notice…

I always noticed.

God forgive me. If God even exists, or if he would be so inclined as to listen to a wretched creature such as myself and forgive me for what I’ve done. Even if “he” never will. I know it with a cold, hard certainty that chills my soul.

Wesley will never forgive me.

Those eyes watch me and I know he’s starving. Fledglings know little more than hunger and need. Without proper care and attention, most perish within a week. High on lust and the intoxication of power, they are easily dispatched.

His arm. His poor mangled arm or what remains of it, dangles from a tattered, bloodied sleeve. In time it will heal, regenerate, in fact. Given a proper supply of blood, he’d be whole in a week. But blood is a precious commodity we don’t have. 

In days gone past, Wesley’s apartment would always contain an inviting pint or two, just waiting in the fridge, in the unlikely chance that I might happen by to take an actual interest in the lives of the mortals who surround me…

How many nights did I wander past this very apartment, pause and stare up at the single, forlorn light that beckoned from the window, and sense the strong resonance of his heartbeat, distinct from all the others in the building. His alone, called out to me though the darkness, beckoning with an unspoken invitation I never accepted.

The soothing familiarity of that ever-faithful beating heart is silenced forever.

Now the fridge is empty. A half-filled bottle of shamelessly expensive wine, that should never have been chilled, rests next to a carton of take-out Chinese, stale and forgotten. But all traces of blood are gone. Wesley stopped carrying it home in the hopes of a visit after Connor…

After the hospital.

I gave him what I dared of my own Sire’s blood. Deep and rich, my arm thrust through the bars of his makeshift prison. Greedy, desperate mouth, gnawing at my wrist. Nursing. Threatening to pull me under with the intensity of his hunger.

Still weakened from our confrontation with the Beast, my back shattered but mending, I didn’t dare offer him as much of my remaining strength as instinct urged me to give my wounded fledgling. I didn’t trust him. *Couldn’t* trust him. Wesley is the most resourceful man I’ve ever known. If he escaped the iron confines of his own closeted prison, and chose to flee, I could never hope to calculate the cost to the world at large. There would be no stopping him. 

Wesley would be no ordinary vampire.

*Vampire.*

I shudder and draw back from the eyes that watch me from the dim. Bright blue. Electric. Mesmerizing…

Deadly.

His victims wouldn’t stand a chance.

Does any of the Wes I know remain? It’s impossible to tell. The blood can twist; taint the shell left vacant by the departing soul. It is impossible to predict what will remain. The blood of a Master Vampire sired his demon, that lends hope to the possibility that a great deal of the Wesley I know, and…

…Love?

Survived.

I am no mere youth, myself, and the legacy of Aurelius is ancient and strong. Now Wesley shares in that legacy. For good or ill.

Nothing will ever be the same. 

His eyes haunt me.

No longer beseeching me from the darkness. No longer crying out in pain and hunger, inhuman sounds emanating from lungs that no longer require air.

They stare, unblinking, at his sire. A question flickers in their depths, or am I imagining it? A spark of something. Is it wishful thinking on my part; could it possibly be…

A hint of recognition? 

“…Angel?” 

The barest of whispers, mortal ears could not discern, but it calls to the blood that fills my veins and my unbeating heart leaps in my chest.

“Wes?”

A moan escapes the pale visage huddled in the shadows, clouding the brilliance of those eyes. “Hungry.”

“I know.” I phoned Gunn, though I knew it was foolish to involve the others. Ordered him to bring blood. Refused to explain. Hung up before he could argue. The gang is still reeling from our latest confrontation with the Beast, and the shock of seeing Wesley fall mortally wounded beneath the onslaught. They have no idea what I’ve done, and they must be confused and frightened, but right now, they are the least of my concerns. At least they are safe, for the moment. Wesley, in fact, gave his mortal life to save my boy.

My child.

Now there is another child.

I tremble at the blasphemy of what I’ve done. Remember how he fought me, begged that he be granted the death that by all rights he earned.

A hero’s death.

Beyond which, heaven surely awaits a man such as he…

The man he “was.”

Not what he’s become.

Can a vampire go to heaven? Is such a thing even possible? Or has my selfishness robbed the weary Englishmen of even that? His rightful rest in eternity’s embrace. I can’t let him tarnish the soul waiting in the ether to return to join with him. I can’t let him *kill*! 

A vampire without sin. Has such a creature ever existed?

Staring into those eyes, I suddenly remember with stark clarity, the rapture of my own “first kill.” The rush of wondrous blood that surged through my veins. An ecstasy beyond compare, culminating in the torrid embrace of my lustful sire. Years of glorious mind blowing sex and blood.

Always the blood.

It calls to me, even through the filter of my soul, tempting, taunting me in ways my mortal companions would never understand.

What must it be like for someone as young and newly formed as my fledgling huddled in the closet, longing for his own, “first kill.”? A right of passage no child should ever be denied.

The demon that is Angelus, and the legacy of my ancestors, wars with the voice of reason in my soul. What I am doing to my child is as great a sacrilege in the eyes of what I am, as stealing his life was a blot against humanity.

I tortured Dru and relished every moment of her anguished cries. I starved her. Beat her. Raped her. Twisted her into a creature who craved the violence and the pain. Couldn’t come without it, by the time I was finished molding her into my dark beauty of the night. Leaving her hopelessly insane. I know what early depravation can do to a young vampire during the formative stages. The damage it can bring. 

I loved every second of it.

But this isn’t Dru, and I am no longer Angelus. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself these past few years as I forged a semblance of normalcy in the family of mortals surrounding me.

Family.

Would they, could they, ever be my family? They think they know me. But they never really knew me, at all. A demon clothed in the guise of human form, capable of atrocities they never imagined, even wearing the mantel of a soul…. 

Wesley knew.

It’s why he took my son.

Somewhere deep inside that brilliant brain of his, buried beneath the blind devotion and years of timid glances….

Wesley knew.

The Watcher in him knew he was the only one of my “people” strong enough to do what must be done to protect my son, to brave my deadly wrath and the consequences of my rage, taking it all on himself and receiving nothing but disdain from the very people his efforts were meant to shelter.

Such was Wesley.

The Wesley that “was.”

I should have let him die. Granted him the sweet release of death. I was a fool. A stubborn, selfish fool. Even in life, I ran headlong into every decision. Consequences be damned. Wes was always my voice of reason. The tether that held my recklessness in check. Who would be that anchor now that I unwittingly cast myself adrift? Why didn’t I listen to him when he needed me to listen the most? When he pleaded with me not to drain his life, leaving this animated shell of an existence?

“Angel?”

The whisper pulls me from my thoughts and I raise my swollen eyes to meet those staring from the dim. 

“Wes?” I breathe, hoping to find a semblance of true recognition in that gaze. 

“Hungry,” he says simply, in monotone.

I sigh. “I know. Gunn is coming. He’s bringing blood…”

“Yours.” The word is a plaintive plea that tugs at what remains of my resistance. Mine. He wants mine. Of course he does. How could he not? “Wes, I can’t risk it.”

The electrifying light of his eyes fades and he shudders back into the corner, trembling, clutching the tattered remains of his arm. A whimper tears from his throat. The first I’ve heard in hours and it rips at my soul.

My child.

My Wesley.

He *has* to feed. I have no right to deny him the solace of my veins! Of course, as a Master Vampire, I have every right to do as I please with my creation. Destroy him even. And destroy him, I will, if I must. As a Watcher, Wesley knows this. He understands the hierarchy of vampires….

Angelus roars with laughter in my brain. Relishing the pain. The huddled, whimpering shell of a creature and the heady scent of blood drying on the healing remains of his arm, they’re the closest things to true ecstasy he’s experienced in quite awhile, and the added glee of knowing that my weakness provided him with this entertainment, intensifies his joy beyond endurance. He revels in my folly. 

And my shame.

*Damnit where is Gunn!*

“Why?”

The question drifts to my ears and I lean toward the bars of his prison, rest my forehead against the cold, unyielding metal. 

“It’s because of Connor, isn’t it?”

It’s the first coherent sentence he’s uttered since this nightmare began, and I gasp in surprise. “Connor?” He hasn’t said my boy’s name in longer than I can remember. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s why you’re doing this to me, isn’t it? Because of Connor…and what I did.”

The air gushes from my lungs and I fight to form a response. He thinks I’m torturing him!

Words freeze on my lips and I choke on my reply.

His eyes haunt me.

“Wes, this isn’t a punishment. I’m not doing this to torment you. We’re waiting for Willow. She’ll…she’ll make everything okay again. I can’t risk setting you free.” If I was fully recovered from my encounter with the Beast, I could easily control the young vampire. But I can’t take that chance…

He watches me without blinking, and I know in my heart he doesn’t believe what I’m saying. I told him he was a ‘dead man’ once, that I would ‘kill him,” and my words were eerily prophetic. I took his life, just as I told him I would as he lay clinging to the vestiges of that life, flesh pale against the sheets, but still flushed with more vigor than the face that stares back at me now from the corner of the cage. He doesn’t believe me.

My heart twists in pain.

Maybe I should end this now, before Gunn arrives and learns the painful truth that will tear his life apart. The horror of what I’m capable of. End it now, before Willow arrives. *If *she arrives, to restore his soul…a soul that will undoubtedly despise me as the monster that I am.

Take him into my arms…. plunge a stake into his back….

A final act of kindness, owed to years of friendship….and something never quite spoken between us, but always there….

Wesley.

My faithful servant.

“Wes…” The word tears from my chest. “I’m coming in.”

His eyes widen in surprise, then narrow and darken with suspicion. A tremor passes through him and he huddles in the farthest corner he can reach, which isn’t far in the close confines of the closet.

“It’s alright,” I breathe, my hand on the lock and chain, barring the entrance. Discreetly, my fingers seek a stake that fell from Wesley’s jacket when the Beast attacked him in the alley. I retrieved it from the ground and slipped it into my pocket as I lifted his crumpled body and brought him home to his apartment, never dreaming I would use it for such an abominable purpose…

He watches me warily. 

“It’s alright,” I repeat softly, mesmerized by my own hands as they seek the lock, insert the key and turn. The chain falls away and I pull open the door as he scrunches farther into the corner, shirking away from me with uncertainty etched into the shadowed lines of his face.

My Wesley.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” My throat chokes on the lie and I shudder as I slip into the cage and crawl toward the huddled form pressed against the wall. It isn’t a lie, really, I try to convince myself. I know it won’t hurt him. Ending this is far more merciful and painless than the indignity my selfishness has already visited upon him. He deserves better than this, after years of unwavering friendship, he deserves much better.

“Angel?”

My name is a mere suggestion on his lips, beyond the range of human hearing, but I hear it and it tugs at my soul. Confusion clouds his face, but as I shift near, my hand concealing the stake in my jacket, his nostrils flare, catching the balm of my scent and his trembling subsides. His sire. His eyes spark and a hint of amber swirls in the depths of the blue as intuitively he equates my presence with nourishment. As a baby bird awaits its mother in the nest.

He thinks I’m here to feed him!

I reach out and lightly touch his shoulder, brushing my fingertips over the fabric of his shirt, feel the solid flesh and bone beneath that once radiated such burning heat.

Now he’s cool.

So very cool…

He slowly calms beneath my touch and the tension in his body begins to ease. He shifts near.

“Hungry.”

“I know.” I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my fingers tighter around the stake. It was all a mistake, such a foolish mistake. Wesley will bolt the first chance he gets, and with the cunning brilliance of his mind, no one could stop him. He will feel no allegiance to the monster who made him. “I’ll make it stop.”

A whisper of hope brushes across his pale face…

I clutch the stake…

And he folds himself against me. His trembling returns with a vengeance as he presses close, taking me by surprise. Instinctively, my arms wrap around him, the stake forgotten.

“It…hurts.”

“I know,” I whisper, rocking him near and stroking his back. He *has* to feed.

*Where the fuck is Gunn!* 

I know I shouldn’t do it. I need to end this now. Wesley deserves better than this! But even as I have the thought, I cradle his tall, lean body in my arms. My nostrils fill with the intoxicating fragrance of the blood drying on his truncated arm. I nuzzle close, touch his sleeve, and he trembles beneath my attentions. His eyes watch me, wide, frozen on my face as I dip my head and press my lips to the wound.

A gasp escapes him.

Gently I lick the torn flesh. The wondrous taste of his blood dances over my tongue. I lave the wound with my saliva, knowing it will help it heal. I hear him sigh as the tension drains from his body and he melts into my touch. I gently cleanse the abused flesh, ugly and torn, ripped from his body when he saved my son’s life.

Connor who hates me.

The very son who I watched in the arms of the woman I love…

A soft moan reaches my ears as I continue to bath the wound with the healing balm of my saliva. My fledgling pushes against me, seeking solace, nourishment only I can provide.

I’m a fool. A selfish fool.

But I take him in my arms, pulling him flush against me in the cramped confines of the closet where we kneel. I feel his lips move urgently against my shoulder, desperately working the leather of my jacket, but not seeking to tear my flesh.

His restraint astonishes me.

Most newly formed creatures in his condition would rip at any source of nourishment they could find without thoughts of consequence.

*I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.*

He whimpers softly and I know that I am damned.

Enfolding him in my arms, I guide his lips to the softness of my throat. I can sense his astonishment. A shudder passes though his pale, thin body and he hesitates. Again, I marvel at his amazing restraint. Clearly, a great deal of the Wesley I know has survived the transformation. He waits for my consent, his body frozen, stiff except for the tremors quaking his limbs.

“It’s alright,” I reassure. “Feed.”

A cry wrenches from his lips and before I can think, his fangs are buried deep in my throat…

Waves of sensation wash through me and I shudder in surprise at the sudden onslaught of ‘feeling.’ It seems an eternity since one of my kind has feed from me this way. Been granted this intimacy. It threatens to overwhelm my senses as he draws the life-giving source of my blood from my veins in deep, greedy draughts. A moan rips from his throat and I clasp him tightly in my arms, rocking in rhythm to the pull from my veins. I hear the echoes of my own groans rising to mingle with his and I’m stunned by the intensity.

Wesley. This is ‘my’ Wesley.

He draws on the blood like the lifeline that it is, and my head begins to swim. I *need* to stop him. He’s young, starving. 

I owe him this! 

He clings to me with his single arm as we sway together in the grips of a growing ecstasy I didn’t expect. He thrusts against me, grinding, desperate for more of my powerful blood, rich and ancient, filling him with strength, even as I feel that strength ripped from my veins, draining me….

I *need* to stop him.

He’s lapping at my throat, gnawing and tearing at the cold flesh that I know will heal, sinking deep and suckling like a babe. I don’t push him away, but instead cradle him in my arms, moaning in rhythm with the desperate sounds emanating from his throat as I rock him.

This is my Wesley.

The room bleeds to shades of gray and all that remains is the draw of his lips pressed against my flesh and the pull of my blood into his greedy veins. He writhes against me, stroking and groaning, and with a start, I realize he’s grown hard with the pulse of my stolen blood. Gorged and swollen, he undulates against me as he feeds, and for some reason it takes me by surprise. It shouldn’t really, but it does. This is Wesley, my brain argues. The uncertain young man who stumbled his way into my life, only to become my anchor and confidant, a man who fate and consequence forged into a hardened, independent, but lonely man….

Gone are the stolen glances and the flush of color against pale cheeks as he watched me from the corner of his eyes, thinking I didn’t know…

I always knew.

He strokes against me and after a moment’s hesitation I pull him near and run my hands down his back in soothing sweeps, encouraging the intimacy in conjunction with the feeding. Foolishly, I hadn’t considered this aspect in my decision to sire the Englishman. But then, I hadn’t been thinking at all…

My thoughts grow foggy and I know it’s time. Pressing my hands against his chest, I start to push free…

A sound.

I freeze when I recognize the sound of someone at the front door.

Gunn! Thank god. Or maybe Willow.

Wesley tenses and draws back from me at the realization that someone is near. His eyes widen, the burning blue replaced by an amber glow that focuses on the bedroom door. 

Groggily I unfold myself from my knelling position and slip from the cage to go into the living room to answer the door. I rise to my feet and turn to close the cage behind me…

That’s when the bedroom door swings wide and I whirl around to find a presence framed in the entrance. A gush of unneeded air rushes from my lungs.

Lilah.

A hiss cuts the sudden silence of the room, and taken by surprise, I turn as the force of Wes’s body impacts with the gate. The lawyer’s unexpected appearance is all the distraction the ex-watcher needs and he’s free from the makeshift prison I didn’t have the time to lock.

The lawyer stumbles back in sudden alarm. The composed veneer of her face crumbles at the disheveled sight of the battered and bloodied one-armed man who releases a blood-curdling hiss and lunges toward her. I grab for him, but he slips through my grasp…

Lilah won’t stand a chance. 

It isn’t that I care for her, but for Wesley’s sake and the sake of his soul that I try to stop him before he reaches her. Too late…

He grabs her arm, shoves her into me and dives through the door.

The ex-watcher is gone.

I shake my head in surprise at the rapid turn of events and push the astonished woman aside, unconcerned that she impacts with the wall and slides to the floor as I race after my fugitive child. Visions of a bloodbath assault my mind. I knew he would escape the first chance he got and run from me. I curse my reckless nature as I race through the living room and find the front door gaping wide, accusing me of my negligence. I think of Gunn, who might even now be coming up the stairway, unaware, and of trusting little Fred and the rest of my ‘family’ back at the hotel.

What have I done!

I should have killed him when I had the chance. Ended this in a merciful way by driving a stake in his heart when the Englishman was in my arms.

I clutch the stake beneath the folds of my jacket and curse the day I was born. I had no right to take his life and leave him like this. I have only myself to blame. I’ll never be able to trust the creature he has become. He ran from me, just as I knew he would. I have to end this.

For both our sakes.

I owe it to the Wes that was.

I race down the long, lonely hall, fearful that I will find the crumpled form of Gunn somewhere along its length. Drained and lost to me forever. 

Nothing. 

I force down a pang of regret that Wesley fled from me. Now is not the time for sentiment. The ex-watcher did precisely what I knew he would. He will *never* trust me. I think of the pull of his hungry mouth against my neck, rocking him gently in my arms. Just as I once cradled Connor…

Wesley is not Connor. But the end result is the same. Two dangerous, distrustful creatures of my own creation who hate me, released upon an unsuspecting world. But for the briefest of moments, as he rested against me, I hoped that Wesley might truly be mine…

I push the sentiments aside.

I *will* do what must be done.

I reach the stairwell leading into the deserted street and search its length with my eyes. Empty. No Gunn. No innocents dead or dying in the wake of my ravenous fledgling. Dusty shadows cloak the street below as I stand at the top, looking down. The park across the street where Wesley lay bleeding to death all those months ago, is deserted as well. No victims. No Wesley.

I race down the stairs, knowing that if my heart were still beating it would be pounding out of my chest.

That’s when I sense it and I freeze.

I whirl around.

Under the stairs, scrunched far into the shadows, a pair of eyes, wide and unblinking, are watching me. 

“Wes?” I breathe in astonishment.

Wesley is under the stairs! Far back in the darkness, crouching and trembling. He stares out at me, making no attempt to flee. 

“I don’t want to see ‘her.’” He croaks.

Her?

“Please…” He rasps. “I…can’t. I just can’t see ‘her.’”

His evil bed buddy! Wes wasn’t running from “me.” He was running away from Lilah!

He stares up at me with pleading eyes and I crawl under the stairwell to reach him. “You don’t have to see her,” I tell him softly.

His eyes squeeze shut with obvious relief and a tremor passes through his body. “Home,” he breathes softly….

And suddenly, I have an armful of Wesley, pressing tightly against me. His long, lean body clinging to me as a refuge in a storm. My arms instinctively pull him near and cradle him close, unbeating heart to unbeating heart…

He wasn’t running from *me.*

“Angel…. take me home.”

And that’s what I do.

 

~~End


End file.
